Dean's Demons
by Dancing Fiyero
Summary: The first time Dean watched Sam fight with his dad, he was seventeen years old. Six hours later that night, John Winchester awoke to the sound of a strangled scream from his eldest son's room. [Violence] CH 8 UP!
1. A Frightful Night

Dean's Demons

**author's note :** No, the boys don't belong to me, neither does John or anything Supernatural, it's all WB and whoever's property.

Slight AU, just because I presume that Dean and Sam sleep in a hotel outside of Livingstone after a year of hunting together. Meh. There's been farther stretches.

_initio._

Chapter 1.

The first time Dean watched Sam fight with his dad, he was seventeen years old. Sam decided he wanted to join the swim team, which meant two morning practices a week, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, practices after school every Wednesday, and competitions every second Friday until the semi-finals. At first their Dad just looked at his youngest son calmly, then quite simply said "No." Sam looked back at him defiantly, and a nauseating silence settled over the room. From there, they erupted into a torrent of screaming insults. Dean slunk into the corner, horrified at the fiery gleam in his brother's eyes and the deadly calm reflected in his father. Sam stormed around, throwing his dad's hunting equipment and lamps off whatever shelves or tables he could reach. John stood near the middle of the room, occasionally crossing and uncrossing his arms, fists clenching and unclenching as he watched Sammy stomp around.

That night, Dean hadn't been able to sleep. Sam slammed the door to his room and refused to talk to their father anymore. It was the first time Dean had heard his brother yell "I hate you", and he couldn't help but feel the blow himself. After all, wasn't he part of the lifestyle Sam rejected so vehemently? It felt like someone had punched a hole in his chest.

Six hours later that night, John Winchester awoke to the sound of a strangled scream from his eldest son's room. Instinctively grabbing the loaded shotgun from his dresser, John bolted down the hall, his heart pounding through his chest. He shouldered Dean's door open, gun at the ready, only to be greeted with Dean was laying in his bed, looking up at the ceiling. The sight should have been relieving. It made his stomach churn. In over a decade of hunting, John had never heard his son scream like that.

"Dean?" John approached the bed carefully, methodically checking the room around him and shutting the door with his heel. Dean's window was closed, there were no drafts, no unearthly cold floating in the room, nothing making noise in the locked closet. Dean's box-spring mattress on the floor prevented things from lurking under his bed. A quick glance up revealed nothing on the ceiling.

"Dean?" He asked again, still presented with silence. "Is everything alright?" Dean made a small, muffled gagging noise, his entire body tense, but completely still except for the panicked look in his eyes. Without removing his gaze from his son, John inched towards Dean's large wooden desk, opening the middle drawer with one hand to grab a small bottle and some rope.

"Dean..." The tone was more cautious now. "You need to answer me." He got an answer this time, but it was more unsettling than the silence. A low growl emitted from the bed, with an eerie clicking noise to disclose it's otherworldliness. Cursing under his breath, John carefully knelt on the edge of the mattress, still speaking in a low, smooth tone.

"Dean, I need you to help me," he said slowly, a pit forming in his gut. "Dean, can you hear me? Give me a sign- blink, or nod your head. Anything, Dean." Nothing. Dean was stock still, even as John carefully bound his wrists, layering a miscellaneous piece of clothing from Dean's floor under the rope. Sam had appeared quietly in the doorway behind them, sheepishly wondering why his brother had screamed. John didn't notice as he looped the rope through the headboard, securing it with knots.

"Dean," he reassured one more time, wishing his son would give him even the smallest response. "_Cristo_," John muttered, fearing the response he knew was coming. Dean flinched. Clenching his jaw, John braced himself.

"I'm sorry, son," he whispered, and as he raised his hand over Dean's chest a splash of holy water trickled from the bottle. A wave of cold washing over his hand made John shudder, and Dean lurched suddenly, steamy smoke hovering over his now damp t-shirt. He started to tug at his bonds, legs thrashing wildly as he tried to kick himself free of the bed. His cries were still oddly muffled, but as he jerked his head violently from side to side they were agonizingly vocalized, his raw scream filling the room. It ripped at John's heart to hear his son shout in pain, but he let another thin stream of water drop, clenching his jaw. Dean bucked and yelped again in what sounded like pure, human panic.

"No! Please--" Dean shouted, and confused, John's hand wavered, knowing the pain holy water would cause could only hurt a demon in him. Another wild thrash, and Dean fell still again, green eyes still locked straight above him in terror. Before John could wonder if it was a trap, Dean let out a shattering scream. His head jerked to the side as four long slashes ripped across his cheek, immediately dripping blood down his chin and neck. John jerked back in confusion, nearly dropping the bottle of holy water. He raised the shotgun, but had nothing to point it at. Dean arched off the bed, crumpling back down a second later as four more deep gashes opened across his chest, slicing through his shirt like butter and soaking his chest red. John stood beside his son's bed, close to panicking as he realized that whatever was hurting Dean, it wasn't in him, and he couldn't see it. Shotgun at the ready, John shouted whatever came to mind: curses, exorcisms, protection spells, and a few "the power of Christ compels you's" tossed in the mix. He wasn't sure why, but a dark shape materialized over Dean and John didn't notice his younger son's arms around Dean's shoulders as Sam ducked under him and threw himself across his brother. Slowly, at first, like someone had turned a smoke machine, the shape twisted into a sinewy silhouette; a large, jagged back hunched over a wide, fang encrusted jaw with lanky, muscular black arms and long claws. John only took it in for a second, it's smoky skin like wrinkled black leather, before putting a shot of rock salt through it. An unholy shriek filled the room, then dissipated, leaving the three Winchesters in silence.

It took Dean three weeks to heal. John had to stitch him up personally, not wanting the questions or cost of a hospital. Sam sat by his brother's bed, refusing to go to school for two days and completely forgetting about swim practice. On the third day, his father dragged him out of the house, threatening that his grades would suffer, and what good was a hunter without brains. At the time, John never considered that Sam would one day leave them for his education. Sam went, but refused to smile or talk with his friends at lunch, because was the only one who would admit what probably happened to his brother. Dean had been emotionally disturbed by their fight earlier that night, and it left him unstable, and alone: a perfect possession opportunity. Because of him.

Dean slipped in and out of foggy dreams for the first week, glad that his dad felt bad enough about what happened to give him a flask of vodka to down before he was stitched up by hand. John couldn't figure out what _it_ was, and didn't have the heart to tell Dean. Once Dean got on his feet, his father tried to avoid the occurrence. Dean only asked about it once:

"Dad?" John looked up from his paper.

"Yes Dean?"

"What was it?" John paused, switching the page of the newspaper calmly.

"A demon."

"But, what kind-"

"It's gone, Dean. That's all that matters."

That was three days after Dean was allowed out of his bed. Ten years later, in a motel just outside of Livingston, Dean realized he would have to find out for himself.


	2. Pesky Personal Demons

**a/n: **I'll actually say it for this chapter- please R & R! I originally intended this to be a one-shot, but there seems to be a lot of interest. I've done the research and have a background for the 'thing', but if anyone has any paths for the story to take, or things they would like to see in the future, please tell! I'll take it to heart!

Chapter 2 

Dean blearily woke up at some ungodly hour, and he knew so because Sam was lightly resting in the bed a few feet away. For some odd reason, the three or so hours before sunrise was the only time Sam's nightmares gave him any sort of break, and the only time he slept, if at all. A wave of unpleasant cold made him shudder, and he let out a groan, throwing an arm over his eyes.

"Sam, did you open the damn window?" Sam moaned something into his pillow, of which Dean could discern a 'no' before Sam rolled over to face the opposite wall. With a frustrated grumble, Dean moved to do the same. He halted halfway, breath frozen in his throat. Above him, long fangs revealed in a grotesque grin, was the_ thing_. The thing that had instilled Sam's first flicker of doubt in their father, and had renewed Dean's relentless fervor for fighting demons. The thing that his father balked at the mention of.

It's boney fingers clasped across his throat to silence any screams, slamming him back into the mattress. Dean wasn't sure he could have screamed if he wanted to because it's eyes were still too captivating. He managed to scrabble once at it's hands around his neck before it stole his attention and his muscles relaxed against his will, going limp as his eyes glazed over like he had been sedated as the thing caught his gaze. He could see it now- clearer, more materialized than before. The thin motel blankets were bunched around his waist, and didn't they shift in the slightest under the thing's weight: it barely seemed to have any, but its claws were digging into his throat and he could feel the pressure on his windpipe. He couldn't do anything but stare up at it, and it seemed to be content to stare back at him for what felt like hours. He could barely breathe; his hands frozen uselessly near his throat and his heart pounding. Every so often, the thing's fingers would tighten to cut off his air completely and Dean's heart thundered in his ears in a moment of blind panic. He gasped uselessly, starting to shake with the effort of escaping it's binding hold on him. It was taunting him. Dean tried to snarl in frustration and fight back, but the effort was lost somewhere between thinking it and his body, which seemed to be ignoring him.

Dean heard Sam stir beside them, and fervently prayed he was just shifting in his sleep. He had no idea what this creature would do to Sam if it noticed him, if it thought he was a threat. He wasn't sure what it would do to him, either, come to think of it. Right now it seemed content to play a sick game of seeing how much oxygen it could deprive Dean of without knocking him out. A familiar sense of terror had set into Dean, dreading his inescapability, but this time his dad wasn't there, and nothing was interrupting what felt like it's slow consumption of his mind. As soon as he thought about his dad, and about the last time the thing had tried to get him, the thing cocked it's head and hissed in recognition. Dean's eyes widened slightly as it forebodingly raised a bony arm. It brought it up over it's own shoulder, bringing it down quickly and raking across his chest, easily slicing through his thin t-shirt. Searing pain flooded Dean again, and he remember the anger and annoyance that had oozed off the thing when their dad had poured holy water through it. His dad had bound his hands, and the thing had grinned, as if in silent thanks. Now, the other hand released his throat to grab his arms in both clawed hands, pinning them at his sides as it tilted it's head to the side to lower the massive jaw towards Dean. Inhaling sharply, Dean's survival instinct kicked in and he let out a cracked yell before everything swam and went black.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"Dean! Dean, wake up!" Consciousness slowly seeping back, Dean felt Sam's hands on his shoulders. They were soothingly heavy and _real_, and he sighed contently at the feeling of safety the human hands provided him with.

"Dean!" His brother pleaded again, shaking him slightly. Prying his eyes open, Dean looked weakly up at Sam.

"Wh-whaa?" His aching throat cracked again, the word not forming properly. Damn, he thought. The thing did more damage than he thought it did. He swallowed, but Sam had understood.

"I don't know." He sounded oddly calm, and a little quieter than usual. He'd woken up to see a massive black creature bent over his brother, pinning Dean's arms to the bed as it tried to eat his face. Alarmed and half awake, Sam dove off his bed towards his brother, grabbing the gun beside his bed before he realized it was his subconscious reminding him of the last time the thing had tried to take Dean, driving him to kill it. Seeing that Sam was a little lost in thought, Dean painfully put a hand to his chest, assessing the damage. It was tender, but there wasn't too much blood. Sam's gaze followed his hand, and he jumped.

"Christ, Dean- are you okay?" Dean nodded.

"Must have just aggravated something," he muttered, and Sam nodded, wanting to believe him for simplicity's sake. The last restless spirit they dealt with had been less than forgiving to both brothers, so he would hound Dean for more answers when they were both more awake. Something about the demon had seemed too familiar, and he remembered standing in the doorway across from it too well.

"I'll get the first aid stuff." Sam trudged to the table with their bags, unzipping the side pocket of Dean's to grab the Ziploc bag with their emergency supplies.

"So, what was it?" He asked warily as he sat back down on the side of Dean's bed, carefully lifting his shirt over the wounds and wiping them down. Sam moved about it almost in slow motion, still put off by the event. All he'd done was lunge at the bed to protect Dean, and the thing had let out a piercing shriek, leapt upwards and dissipated into the ceiling.

Dean hissed in pain, answering through a clenched jaw.

"Just one of those pesky personal demons, I guess." He joked, and Sam scoffed.

"You're gonna tell me that was a psychological manifestation of your issues?" Sam scoffed, although it came out almost hysterical. "You must have some seriously freaky issues." He was babbling, and was Dean looking at him like he'd just sprouted an encyclopedia for a head. Grimacing as Sam tied the last bandage around his chest, Dean gave his brother a lopsided grin.

"I must have had a messed up childhood, or something."

Sam snorted, nodding his head.

"You're telling me." Shaking himself off and grabbing his coat from the rack on the back of the door, Sam slipped it on. "Hey, you want some breakfast?" He asked, feeling for his wallet. Dean grinned, happy his brother was finally catching on to his 'silence is golden' approach to issues, and the prospect of food made his stomach grumble in happy repose.

"Yeah. Come-on." He grunted as he carefully hauled himself up, slipping a clean t-shirt over his bandages, grabbing his jacket from the chair and jangling the car keys in his pocket as they headed for the door.


	3. I: Dean

Interlude I

**Dean**

The clock said 3:47 am. He was three minutes early. He'd been checking the clock routinely every five minutes, but something had startled into looking 3 minutes early. It felt like someone had opened a freezer right over him. Dean wasn't sure if he'd actually fallen asleep or not, his mind was a little foggy, and he felt like he kept slipping in and out of the world for seconds at a time.

Shivering, Dean rolled over to try and warm up under the covers, tucking himself into a ball under his blankets. A cold, wiry hand closed on his shoulder, and Dean froze, his stomach clenching into a knot. He immediately tried to knock it off and jump up, but it effortlessly, almost gently pushed him onto his back. His heart was pounding in his chest. Momentarily stupefied, Dean was confronted with the wavering image of a huge, lanky creature. It looked like a mirage behind smoke, Dean wasn't entirely sure it was real or if he was finally just dreaming. The thing's hand enclosed tightly around his throat, and Dean managed a loud shout before it cut off his air.

Alright, it seemed real enough.

His hands flew to his throat.

As solid as the thick grey fingers felt around his neck, Dean couldn't get a grip on them. It was like trying to grab smoke. He could do nothing to fight it. The thing was mocking him, it's head bobbling back and forth in what looked like twisted silent laughter. Dean found he could barely struggle, and breathing was getting more taxing. The thing's shadowy silver eyes captured his full attention hypnotically, and through Dean's struggles they caught his gaze. He abruptly fell completely still under it's stare, it's grip loosened on his neck just enough to let air through. Dean heard the door slam open, and saw his father's shadow across the rectangle of light from the corner of his eye. John approached slowly, but Dean couldn't tear his eyes away from the creature above him. He felt like he'd lost complete control of his body. But it was alright, his dad would see the thing and shoot it. Everything would be fine in a few seconds... Dean gulped, taking as deep a breath as he could under the thing's chilling fingers. It looked at him, lips peeling back across a black gaping hole. Dean was quite sure was smirking at him.

"Dean?" His dad sounded too calm. "Is everything alright?" Dean wanted to cry in frustration, and scream at his dad to raise the shotgun and shoot, but his silent frustration remained locked in one small fragment of his mind that wasn't captivated. It felt like someone had erected walls in his head, and Dean could feel the control of his body lost to the thing, just like his speech, but one little vehement part managed to keep itself present and burn with helplessness.

The thing was right there, holding him down, beguiling him with marble eyes. Why wasn't his dad shooting it? He heard a soft noise, and the click of his desk drawer. The next thing he knew, Dean's arms were bound to the bed. They felt like lead, as though someone was moving him like a puppet. All he could do was stare, while one part of him screamed unheard in his mind at his powerlessness. The thing lowered its wide jaws, and let out a low, reverberating growl. Dean felt like his mind jolted upwards, like it was pulling him from his body. He vaguely wondered what was happening, as the small independent part of him slid a little further into the thing's paralyzing mental grip, feeling himself slid away. He wondered distantly if his eyes would still be open when he died.

He heard his dad mutter something, and the thing let out a chilling hiss sound. The paralyzing grip on him lessened fractionally as the thing grimaced and convulsed. Dean felt like the twinge of searing pain ran through him too, and he flinched unsuspectingly, it's mental hold slipping only momentarily under the painful distraction. It was enough of a jolt to start Dean fighting, clinging to the small part of him that he had some control over.

Through his few clear thoughts, he heard his father apologize. A spike of fear ran through the seventeen year old. His dad wasn't the apologizing type, and if he had any control over his body, Dean's heart would be pounding in alarm. He felt something wet hit his chest, and the icy grip on his mind released simultaneously. In what seemed like an almost feeble, wild attempt, the thing clamped a bony hand down over his mouth as it grimaced and twisted above him, steaming, John's hand in the middle of it's where it's ribcage would be as he poured the holy water.

Dean tried to scream, feeling him lurch back into control of himself, but the sounds were blocked by the bony hand holding him. He flailed against his bonds instead, rejoicing a little as his legs kicked off the bed. To his dismay they just passed harmlessly through the thing, but he kept fighting. He felt the ropes burn on his wrists as he violently tugged at the bonds, his head whipping from side to side as John poured another small stream of holy water. The thing shuddered above him, clearly displeased and in pain, and Dean felt a rush of air seep through it's hand. Reacting instinctually, he sucked in a deep breath, and screamed again, too panicked and desperate to be free of the thing to form coherent words.

His pleas reached the air, and he felt the stream of water hitting his chest stop. He started to scream for his dad to continue- but the thing was faster. It noticed too, and immediately disabled Dean with a vicious glance. Dean's cries choked into silence. Now it was angry. Instead of trying to rip his mind from his body, it lifted one gangly arm and brought it down across his cheek. Jolting out of the thing's last shreds of control, Dean shrieked at the unholy scorching it left, blinding pain shooting across the wound, searing into his eyes, and burning up into his brain. It repeated the gesture, leaving long strokes across his chest, and Dean almost went hoarse as he howled again, his insides all blazing with blistering fire. The pain mounted, and Dean could feel tears running down his cheeks from under his clenched eyes.

Someone was yelling something, but Dean couldn't make it out, and he prayed for something, anything-- death-- so long as the agony stopped. He knew unconsciousness wasn't going to relieve him, but with a discomforting jolt, it felt like someone poured an ebbing ocean of cool over him. Small arms wrapped around his neck, and Dean let out a shaky breath, the pain instantly subsiding to a dull sting.

"Sammy..." He whispered in a raspy voice, but it was drowned out by the crack of a shotgun. His brother nuzzled into his neck, warm tears of sheer terror for his brother leaking onto Dean's shoulder, their father breathing heavily in relieved silence beside the bed.


	4. Home Cooking & A Message From Home

**a/n:** Well, here it finally is. One more chapter. Now onto a fourth...exasperated sigh These boys are giving me trouble! Sorry it took so long, although I won't make encouraging promises about the next chapter, because I have no clue! I am working on it, and am hoping to put a severe dent (if not another chapter) in this before my break finishes. But no matter how stuck I get, I absolutely promise I WILL finish it. I'm too fond of it not to - it's my first long fic that isn't death-centric!

Thanks again for all the wonderful support! Hope you enjoy... Reviews are more than welcome, and muchos incentive for writing more. I feel like my writing's gone completely bland lately, please tell me what you think so I can get back on my feet!

Chapter 3.

Flopping uncharacteristically into the driver's seat made Dean wince, so Sam pulled him back out and forced the car keys out of his hand. Grumbling something about flaying Sam alive if he mistreated his baby, Dean walked over to the passenger's seat and carefully folded himself back into the car. They drove in silence, Dean hunched over himself against the door as he stared out the window, eyes wide open from the rush of adrenaline leftover from being attacked. His chest itched, but even clenching his stomach muscles hurt, so he tried to ignore it by drumming on his knee. Sam kept glancing over at him, trying to make it discreet so Dean didn't feel like he was being checked on. Dean hated it, especially when his little brother was doing the checking. Anything that didn't kill him, he figured he could deal with, and Sammy didn't need to see him in pain.

Sam scanned the long road, wondering where they were going to find an open restaurant at four in the morning. The sun was just starting to rise, giving everything that grey-blue starkness he was getting used to seeing. Sam cast another glance at Dean, longer this time, from the corner of his eye. Dean noticed, and lifted his head from the window.

"What?" He croaked, his throat still raw from being crushed. Self-consciously, he zipped his jacket up further, covering the bruises starting to form on his neck. Sam shook his head, looking back out the windshield.

"Nothing. Just making sure you're awake."

"Just in case anything scary is hiding in the back seat?" Dean mocked, regretting the laughter he let out as soon as it scraped through his throat. Sam gave him a dark look, half casting a paranoid glance at the rearview mirror, just in case. Normally, he would have dismissed Dean's comment with a retort, but his stomach was still in his throat from earlier and worry was nagging at him.

"Dean, that thing could have killed you." Dean, sensing one of his brother's death and doom moments coming on, snorted, finding it less painful than laughter.

"Come on, man. Don't dwell." It's gone now, Dean wanted to add, but part of him said that it wasn't. Dean ignored it.

"Dwell? Dean, we didn't even hear it come in. It took both of us by surprise - that thing could have ripped you apart!"

"Actually, it was closer to choking me-" Dean started, and Sam cut him off angrily.

"When are you going to start caring about this stuff?" Dean glared at him defensively, but he plowed on. "You're a self-righteous hero when it comes to saving other people, but as soon as it comes to saving yourself, you just want to forget about it. You can't save anyone if you're dead!" Sam wanted to continue, but he noticed that Dean had paled slightly, clenching his jaw as he looked pointedly out the window. It was nothing his brother didn't deserve to hear, but Sam let out a frustrated sigh, looking back out at the road again with a small pang of guilt.

They drove the rest of the way in silence, staring out their respective windows. After an uncomfortable ten minutes, Sam was starting to understand why Dean usually played music- it made it easier to pretend they weren't talking when they were fighting. Now Dean was just staring out the window again, head resting against the cool glass, and Sam noticed his eyes starting to droop as the endorphins wore off and his body tried to start recovering from the gashes under his shirt. After a quarter hour or so, Sam saw a sign for "Masey's Home Cooking" approaching ahead on the road. Hoping it was open, he wheeled the car into the gravel driveway, pulling up in front of a small, home-run diner. There were a few motorcycles out front from bikers who finally got hungry on the road. The only other car in the parking lot was a large Winnebago, with a few novelty souvenirs dangling on the dashboard. Sam pulled the Impala up near the door, slipping the keys safely in his pocket as he looked over at Dean. He was asleep, his nose squashed against the window, mouth open slightly as he breathed slowly. Sam couldn't help but smile at his big brother, head lolling like a snoozing toddler in a car seat. The boiling frustration with him was starting to fade, especially as Dean made a snuffling noise and his head dropped forwards. He woke up with a start, hair sticking up on one side from being plastered against the damp window as he looked drowsily around.

"Where'r we?" He murmured, stretching in the limited space of the car but stopping with a wince and laying a hand over his chest.

"A restaurant- come on," Sam prompted, opening the door of the car to step out. Dean let out a protesting groan, trying to curl back up against the door. The cool air seeping in from Sam's open door made him shiver, and his nice warm spot on the window had gone cold again, so he tucked his arms around himself and got stiffly out of the car. Sam twitched forwards to help him, but restrained himself, knowing he would just get brushed off.

"They better have booze," Dean muttered to himself, shivering again. Sam hid his grin, holding the glass front door open so his groggy brother didn't walk straight into it.

Everyone looked up at the small bell that rang as they walked in, and the strange looks from most of the small restaurant populous didn't go unnoticed by Sam. They certainly didn't look like the usual customers, and both brothers were well aware that they looked nothing like brothers, which had a tendency to raise a few eyebrows in small conservative towns.

"Here-" Sam said in a hushed voice, trying not to disrupt the still atmosphere around them as he pulled a chair out for Dean. Dean dropped into it gratefully, left hand still slung across his stomach protectively. Sam sat across from him, tapping his fingers on the linoleum table.

"What can I get you, boys?" A tall man with the beginnings of a two-day old beard walked up to the table, a towel slung over one shoulder and his arms crossed.

"Two coffees- and a menu?" Sam ventured, and the gruff man looked a little suspiciously at him, then glanced at Dean. Dean was just starting at the table, adjusting uncomfortably in his seat with a small grunt. As he glanced up, the waiter quickly diverted his gaze back to Sam, but Dean spoke anyways.

"I'll have some water." The man's suspicions seemed to grow as his voice cracked dryly, and he glanced down at Dean's arm over his chest accusingly, and gave them a tight smile.

"Sure thing," he replied curtly, and headed back towards to open kitchen. Sam looked at Dean questioningly.

"You okay?" He asked, pulling at the corner of the paper napkins in the metal holder between them. Dean grunted again, coughing to clear his throat.

"Yeah. So- Anything catchy in the news lately?" If changing the topic was a sport, Dean would be the Olympic gold-medalist. Sam allowed him the diversion for now, and shook his head.

"Nothing that immediately stands out. As far as I can tell, everything's normal."

"As normal as things get," Dean scoffed, regretting it slightly this time.

"There was one thing- some spokesperson for a big business, who said he saw a creature in his mirror, freaked out and trashed all the mirrors in his place." Dean looked up, intrigued, and Sam continued. "I did some research, turns out he's got a history of paranoia and stress. Claimed the creature looked like his boss with his mother's voice." Sam scrunched a small ball of paper napkin between his fingers as Dean snorted.

"People are freakin' nuts," he mused, as the waiter came back with his glass of water, earning him yet another doubtful look. Dean, unfazed, gave him a nod and wide grin of thanks. He dropped a menu in front of Sam, and disappeared again, so Dean looked back at his brother.

"So, nothing strange on the spooky front?" He asked. Sam shook his head, opening the menu. He glanced somewhat distastefully down the list of greasy foods, his stomach still on edge from the rude awakening earlier. Dean was carefully sipping his water, looking relieved but grimacing whenever he swallowed. Sam peeked over the top of his menu every once in a while to inspect Dean. He was still looking a little pale, but more awake again, which was good.

"You want something?" He asked, and Dean adamantly shook his head, turning slightly green at the thought of food. Sam folded the menu back onto the table, raising an accusatory eyebrow at Dean.

"You wanted food," he insisted.

"Now I don't," Dean replied a little snappily. Sam shook his head and settling on waiting for his coffee. Dean took another sip of his water, and glanced habitually out the front windows at his car. It was a habit Sam had started noticing whenever they stopped in restaurants, but especially in bars- Dean cast protective glances out at his car like someone would a dog waiting out front, to make sure it was still there and unscathed.

"The car's not going to leave on it's own, Dean." Sam muttered with a small grin, raising an eyebrow at his brother. Dean looked witheringly over at him out of the corner of his eye, and shrugged stubbornly.

The waiter returned again, only one cup of coffee in hand. He was wearing a dark look that made both brothers look warily at each other. Placing the coffee in front of Sam, he turned the dirty look on the older Winchester.

"You look familiar." He accused, and Dean gave him a quizzical look.

"I get that a lot," he dismissed, but the man shook his head.

"No- you look like that fellow, Dean Winchester. Saw a picture of you in the paper not too long ago, said you murdered people. My daughter watched your funeral on some website." He persisted suspiciously. Dean shifted apprehensively, but shook his head coolly.

"Funny, I think you're like the fifth person to tell me that," he lied with a cautious smile. "It's nice knowing I look like some dead guy." The man crossed his arms disbelievingly.

"I saw your picture."

"No," Dean corrected. "You saw that- what's his name—Winchester. My name's Young." Sam smiled to himself as he tried to guess Dean's reference this time. It was their ongoing game, but the waiter clearly wasn't buying it, so Dean did what he was best at.

"Can I get that coffee?" He asked, diverting attention away from the topic at hand. He was greeted by a frown, but the man stalked silently back to the kitchen without further incident. Dean let out a low breath and took another drink of water.

Sam glanced around the restaurant, wondering how much attention they had raised, and out of the corner of his eye he saw a wall of black leather approaching them. One man, easily taller than Sam and probably as wide as he was tall, was headed for their table. He was wearing a red bandana, his scraggly black hair pulled into a matted braid. He had enough tattoos to make him look like a back-alley wall plastered in graffiti, and rows of large hoop earrings lining his ears. Sam noticed a few burn marks, and something that looked like either paint or dried blood on his beaten black leather vest.

"You Dean Winchester?" Dean looked dubiously at Sam, then back at the tall biker.

"Who's asking now?" The man grabbed the collar of Dean's shirt, hauling him out of the plastic seat. Sam jumped from his chair as Dean winced and tried to wriggle free. The man drew him up to snarl in his face.

"You wrecked my bike," he growled, and Dean scowled and twisted his head to the side.

"Dude, coffee breath," he complained, and Sam sighed. This was not a good time for Dean to be pissing off an already pissed off man who could probably snap them like twigs. A few of the man's cohorts had gathered behind them, and Sam could see a few heavily-ornamented rings decorating thick knuckles that were being cracked menacingly.

"You shot my bike," the guy threatening Dean said again, grip tightening on his shirt. Sam glanced down and noticed Dean was carefully balanced on the very tips of his boots as the tall man hauled him angrily a little farther up.

"I'm sure it was an accident," Dean replied with a charming grin, attempting an innocent shrug. Sam stepped in, trying to stick an arm between them.

"Hey, come on man-" he tried to intervene, but the man just turned a glare on him.

"This doesn't have to do with you." He snarled, but Sam didn't back down.

"How can this be that guy, if that guy died?" Sam interjected logically. Dean caught on, and in the man's moment of considering pause, he slipped from his grasp, brushing the large hands off his jacket.

"I feel pretty alive," Dean added cockily, with a self-satisfied smirk. The man looked at him skeptically, then glanced out the window at the black Impala in the parking lot.

"That your car?" He asked gruffly. Dean glanced out too, then gave him a proud grin.

"Yup."

"Nice car," the man baited, and Sam only saw where this was going too late for him to intervene on Dean's behalf. "Rare model?"

"Nah- but I haven't seen another like her..." Dean started, and realized what he'd walked into at the same moment the biker shoved him roughly back into the table with a fist wrapped in the middle of his shirt.

"Neither have I." He confirmed with a sneer. Dean opened and close his mouth once, both unsure of what to say and winded in pain.

"Hey- look, whatever happened to your bike, it wasn't me." Dean finally protested, scrabbling at the man's thick wrist to try and balance where he was pinned between the table by the hulking body mass of the guy in front of him. His chest was burning with the effort to keep from falling back onto the table, and he could feel his bandages damp from where his wounds had reopened. Sam sprang into action, trying to grab the guy's shoulder and toss him back so Dean could stand. Unfortunately, he barely budged, and shoved Sam back with his elbow and lifted a fist to punch Dean. Wanting to keep his face intact, Dean twisted sideways over himself, trying to ignore to pain of the man's fist dragged across his chest. Even injured, Dean had a speed advantage, and he ducked under the man's arm, stumbling a few steps before turning. The biker lost his grip on Dean's shirt, but advanced on him with a snarl. Dean, knowing full well it would be painful for him to fight, ducked behind Sam to put his brother and the table between him and his predator.

"Chill out, buddy." Sam reasoned, holding up his hands, and Dean could see his brother tense and poised for a quick attack. Sam had underestimated the guy's strength once, and Dean had no doubts his brother could flatten the guy in under a minute now. The biker raised his hands to try and simply smash Sam aside, but they all heard a telltale click and froze. Looking slowly at the back of the restaurant, Dean and Sam saw their waiter holding a shotgun over the bar top of the open kitchen.

"Get out," he growled slowly, and the two brothers cast a glance at each other. Sam noticed something bordering on arrogant in Dean's gaze - being ordered out when he hadn't had his coffee yet had clearly ruffled Dean's feathers. Sam just gave him a pleading look, not wanting to deal with the trouble. They needed to stay under everyone's radar, and Dean was hurt. The older couple across the restaurant had paused, staring at them in almost comical wide-eyed horror, forks and mugs half way to their mouth like a still frame. After a second, of uncomfortably tense silence, Dean silently succumbed and huffily walked towards the door. He opened it with excessive force, letting it slam violently as they passed through it.

Dean stalked to the car, opening his door as irritably as he could without being too rough. He was grumbling about shotguns, blockhead bikers and kicking demonic ass when Sam got back into the driver's seat. Sam sighed, leaning his head back against the seat.

"What was that about?" He asked, trying to sound calm. Dean gave him a scathing glance, then broke into a surprisingly self-satisfied smile.

"I trashed his bike." Sam opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He paused, staring at his brother in shock.

"You---what? When?" He coughed out. Dean shrugged, still grinning smugly.

"Trashed his bike. Shot it with a silver bullet- must have been three years back now." Sam looked utterly confused.

"Was it...a demon bike?" He asked cautiously, trying to make sense of Dean's story. He knew Dean was a little... weird sometimes, but he had never known him to get involved in a one-man gang war without need. His brother just shook his head, eerily joyous grin dropping to a more normally smug half-smirk.

"Nah- I was aiming for a werewolf. Bastard moved too fast." He explained, and Sam let out a small sigh of relief that there was some logic to it.

"So...It was an accident." He clarified. Dean nodded, one hand on the dashboard.

"Relatively speaking. Guy was an asshole anyways, hitting the bike was a bonus." Sam shook his head, unable to try and decipher his brother's logic.

"A bonus that earned you another bandage job." He retorted, looking pointedly at Dean's chest. Dean waved him off, and rubbed his stomach instead.

"So, where to now. I'm hungry."

"I thought you--" Sam cut himself off with a sigh. It wasn't worth it. "We might as well head back to the hotel, and pick up the rest of our stuff." Dean nodded.

"And next time we choose one, let's go for the room without demons in the ceiling."

They made it back to the hotel in more comfortable silence, with a few mandatory sibling jibes back and forth as Sam pulled the car into the parking lot. As they walked up to the door of their room, Dean's cell phone rang in his pocket, and he stopped abruptly as he pulled it out.

"Dean?" Sam paused, key to the hotel room in hand. He recognized the look on his brother's face. "Is it Dad?"

"I'm not sure..." Dean murmured, studying the small screen. His legs started working again and he followed Sam back into their room, showing him the text message as they closed the door. It was the set of coordinates they had seen before from their father, followed by a small, uncapitalized "help me." Unknown number. Sam looked quizzically at it, and raised an eyebrow at Dean.

"Dad doesn't usually-"

"Dad never." Dean corrected. "And the man could be talking to Satan himself and still use proper grammar." He clicked the cell phone shut decisively. Something flickered worriedly in Sam's mind.

"What if it is Dad?" He asked after a moment. Dean looked up from where he had started shoving his clothes into a duffel bag.

"It's not, Sam." He answered resolutely. He obviously didn't want any doubts implanted in his judgment. "Dad wouldn't write something like that." He rationalized, resuming his bag-stuffing.

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "But what if..."

"What if nothing. It could be a trap." Dean countered, trying to ignore his brother. He wanted to think it was their Dad, that they might get to see him this time and hell, maybe even help him, but an uneasy feeling combined with the rude demonic awakening he had received told him otherwise. "Don't you think the timing's just a little too convenient for dad to suddenly need our help?"

"We've dealt with traps before," Sam persisted. "What if Dad really needs us."

"And what if that's exactly what they want us to think?" Dean argued back, voice rising slightly.

"Well, what if he's finally tracked down the thing that killed Mom and Jess, and needs us to help kill it once and for all." Sam's voice was taking on the desperate pleading tone his older brother knew too well. It was the same tone he had used when he tried to convince Dean at age thirteen that Dad wouldn't mind them borrowing his crossbow to practice with because really, if they got attacked while he was out, he'd be proud that they could defend themselves. Then Dean had taken the blame for the bolt sized hole in the refrigerator door, which they had covered with a travel magnet in hopes the hotel staff wouldn't notice until they were long gone. But that damn tone still had the same effect on him, and Dean paused to think for the split second Sam needed to pounce onto higher ground in the fight.

"We're going," he insisted, packing his few stray things back into his bag. "And if it's Dad, we'll help him. And if not," he tossed the bag over his shoulder adamantly. "Then we'll kick some ass anyways," he decided, throwing Dean's words back at him. Dean glowered at him, but he could never last in the stubborn staring contests when is came to his baby brother's firm but pleading brown eyes. He looked like a goddamn puppy, like something you pick off the shelf and give to little girls. Dean mused at how entertaining it would be to shrink Sam down to Barbie size and give him to a four-year-old girl who would braid his hair and put him in dresses. Still glowering, however, he tossed his bag of clothes at Sam's feet to pull out his laptop.

"I'll kick _your_ ass," he muttered bitterly as he opened the screen to search up the coordinates. Sam kept his grin to himself, but clapped his brother on the shoulder triumphantly but carefully as Dean sat down. "Don't touch me," Dean countered, evidently trying to fume over loosing the fight. Sam considered ruffling his hair, but decided against it and settled for crossing his arms with a smug smile as his brother pulled up a national map. Being the younger brother had its benefits, he admitted to himself, as Dean wrote down the city name and tucked his decorated computer away. Shoving the small scrap of paper into Sam's hand, he stalked out the door to the car, leaving Sam to give the room a once-over before following him out.

"I hope you're right," Dean grumbled as Sam got into the car after packing their stuff into the trunk.

"Yeah," Sam gave him a sweet grin, adding to Dean's doubts more than consoling them. "Me too."


	5. Close Encounters

**a/n: **the fourth installment...I'm not too happy with the end of it (I think it's a bit of a cop-out ending- don't hate me!) As always, I super-appreciate feedback, especially since I'm trying not to run around in a panic to sort out what's happening in the next few chapters. But don't worry, I'm enlisting help! Muahahaha! If nothing else, I promise more banter! Less unconscious Dean, but brotherly insults! Yeah...Well, that's that, hope you enjoy--I promise, I'll leave Dean alone soon. Kinda. Maybe.

Chapter 4

Dean sat in the driver's seat this time, clambering in during the few seconds Sam took to catch up. When Sam sat down, he raised a cynical eyebrow at his brother, silently doubting Dean's ability to drive injured. Dean held his hand out for the keys, looking patiently out the windshield. He cleared his throat non-too-subtly, and, sighing, Sam pulled the keys out of his pocket and shoved them into Dean's impatiently waggling fingers. Dean happily stuck them in the ignition, reveling in the familiar rumble of the engine before pulling out of the small motel parking lot. Sam was always a bit impressed whenever Dean got onto the road, though he'd never admit it. His brother seemed to have a map of the entire country etched into his mind. For all the driving they did, Dean only ever looked at a map if he was pulling up specific coordinates, or needed to find the location of a town with a population less than 50.

Sam stared out the window at the usual scenery. There wasn't anything particularly notable in this part of the country. Dean fiddled with the tape player to bring music rumbling through the speakers, comforting the silence. Sam remember the first or so when he came back from college that he had felt pressured to try and make conversation with his brother on their long drives. The small talk and awkward pauses served to amuse Dean until Sam fell back into their pattern of agreeable quietude, talking only when one of them actually had something to say. Now Sam would just stare out the window, or close his eyes without needing to make unnecessary small talk, and Dean found it reassuringly familiar. He drummed his fingers lightly on the wheel to Nazareth's "Broken Down Angel" as his younger brother did just that- stared blankly out the window. Well, blankly to Dean. Sam was lost in deep musings, his train of thought leading across a multitude of silent topics, none of which were really good conversation material.

Sam wasn't sure how long he had been thinking for. The scenery looked all too similar to judge by, and he wasn't paying enough attention to try. He was reflecting on the possible supernatural origins of Peter Pan when he heard Dean say his name. It took him a few seconds to shake off his thoughts and respond, but the process was sped up when the car swerved slightly. Sam swung his head up from the window just in time to see Dean's eyes roll back in his head as he went limp in his seat, hands dropping from the steering wheel. Heart jumping into his throat, Sam swore loudly and dove for the wheel, halted by the harsh tug of his seat belt.

"Dean?!" He called loudly, trying to elbow his brother back to consciousness, or at least shove his foot off the gas pedal.

"Dean!" He shouted again, panic rising in his voice, but Dean was out cold. He was pale and his cheeks were flushed, causing a pit of worry to form in Sam's stomach. Sam shouldered him harder, trying to nudge Dean sideways, and the car jumped across the yellow line in the middle of the road. Sam tried to bring it back and overestimated, and the car thumped a little as it hit the grass. Wincing, he spun the wheel to pull the car back onto the road- _anywhere_ on the road was better than getting his brother's Impala torn apart against a fence. The sudden movement caused Dean to slump over, his head colliding with the window. Cringing at the dull crack, Sam hoped it had at least woken his brother up as he frantically tried to keep the car from wrapping around the fence posts on the side of the road. Heart pounding furiously, he tried to nudge Dean again. This time, he got a small, low moan, and Sam jumped in excited panic.

"Dean! Dean, wake up-" Sam pleaded, as his brother cracked one eye open a slit, obviously not fully conscious. "Dean, get your foot off the gas pedal." He shouted desperately, and Dean looked at him questioningly through a squinted eye. Confused, he tried to blink his vision back to normal, and abruptly realized Sam was thrown across his lap in an attempt to control his veering car. With a lurching jolt of adrenaline to his stomach he rolled his foot off the pedal at the same time Sam tried to body check him again, crushing him against the door. Sam maneuvered onto the shoulder of the road, feeling a few tall clumps off grass whip up into the wheel well as dirt tore up beside them. The car skidded to a stop and Sam flew sideways onto Dean as all his organs righted themselves. They paused, shocked at the sudden stillness around them, and Sam picked himself up, undid his seat belt and shifted back into his own seat stiffly. Dean lifted his head from the window with a grimace, and Sam laughed quietly in nervous relief.

"Whoa..." Sam mused, running a hand through his hair. When Dean didn't share in his relief, Sam looked at his brother questioningly, and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Dude, you okay?" he asked cautiously. Dean nodded, looking a little cross-eyed, then lunged for the door handle. "What happened?" Sam continued, but Dean wasn't listening.

"I'm gonna be sick," he murmured, undoing his seat belt just in time to roll sideways out of the car and land on his knees on the pavement, one hand clutched over his bandaged chest. He heaved the minor contents of his stomach as Sam scrambled out of the car in alarm. He skidded around the front to land beside his brother, gently putting one hand on his shoulder and rubbing his back. Dean shuddered, shaking slightly under Sam's hands as he spat and wiped his mouth on his hand.

"Dean?" Sam asked worriedly, and Dean nodded just as his brother expected.

"I'm fine," he answered hoarsely, and Sam scoffed.

"You just passed out in the driver's seat. Now you're puking." Sam retorted harshly. He was worried, and when Sam got worried he got a bit hysterical. Backtracking a bit, he started tracing large circles on Dean's back and took a deep breath. Dean shifted to crouch back on his heels, arm still across his stomach, his other hand supporting him on the ground. Sam steadied him, keeping one hand splayed across the back of his jacket and holding his shoulder to keep him from falling forwards even as Dean tried to shrug him off.

"Let me see," Sam ordered, pointing to Dean's chest. Dean scowled up at him, but he clearly wasn't going to win this one out. He was still shaky, his stomach wasn't very happy with him, and his head seemed to be joining the mutiny.

"Let's just keep going- you can drive for a bit." Dean muttered, futilely trying to stand. Sam gently pulled him back down, keeping him crouched on the ground.

"Stay there," he instructed, standing to grab Dean's keys out of the ignition and open the trunk. He grabbed new bandages and some gauze, but couldn't find a water bottle for Dean to gargle with. He glanced into the back seat, but like usual Dean had cleaned it out before they got on the road. His pensive pause was interrupted by a low moan from his brother. He grabbed the only thing they had - a water bottle of holy water, and scooted back over to Dean.

"Here, lay down." Sam pulled off his jacket, and forced his reluctant sibling onto his back with the jacket under his head. Dean pushed back, trying to sit up, and Sam paused before he pressed him back again when Dean gave another small whimper.

"I'd rather sit," he murmured as he carefully sat back up, covering a wince as he shifted to lean against the back door of the car. Looking at his brother, Sam wasn't quite sure where to start. Keeping his brother from throwing up again would be a good start, so Sam twisted the cap off the holy water and it to Dean, who looked at him ludicrously through his weary daze and raised an eyebrow.

"It's all we've got, if you want to rinse out your mouth." Sam explained, and Dean shrugged as much as he could and took a cautious sip. He cringed immediately, feeling a forebodingly recognizable burn down his throat as he unintentionally swallowed, and put a hand to his mouth as the water hit his stomach and made it lurch unpleasantly. Sam put a hand on his shoulder reassuringly as Dean dropped his head back against the car, gagging.

"You okay?" Sam asked again, and this time Dean didn't nod for fear of triggering his uneasy stomach. He swallowed, closing his eyes to stop his head from spinning, and felt a cool hand on his forehead as Sam took his temperature.

"You've got a fever," he diagnosed, and Dean grunted. "We should have washed this out earlier," Sam berated, more at himself than his brother, as he shoved Dean's jacket aside and lifted his t-shirt. Dean was too busy trying to keep from puking on his brother to protest as Sam unwound the bandages, letting out a low hiss as he put a hand gently over the scratches. Heat was radiating from them, and Sam couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt for not thinking to clean the wound with holy water earlier. It was going to hurt a hell of a lot more now, and Dean was already in worse shape. With a regretful sigh, Sam took the water bottle from where Dean had rested it beside him and doused a piece of gauze.

"This is gonna sting like a bitch," Sam warn, seeing his brother's lip twitch towards a smile. Dean grunted again in recognition, taking a slow, deep breath. Hesitating for a second, Sam took his own steeling breath. It didn't matter how he did this, it was going to be painful. With an apologetic glance, Sam swiped the dripping cloth across the first of the long gashes. Dean stiffened and slammed his head back against the car, gritting his teeth at the onslaught of searing pain. Sam could hear a quiet hiss, sounding like a broken radiator, as light steam rose from the wound and it darkened from blood red to sizzling black. He managed to wipe it once more, douse the cloth again and move onto the second gash when Dean's hand clamped down on his arm with white knuckles, lifting his head to bang it back against the car again as Sam heard him fight down a scream.

"Don't dent the car," Sam tried to joke, failing miserably. Dean gave him a tight-lipped smile anyways, eyes clenched shut with another wave of nausea. Sam tried to finish the last two inflamed gashes as quickly as he could, apprehension building as Dean let out a low groan and bit his lip, colour draining completely from his face. Dean was shaking more violently, and his death grip was digging into Sam's arm. Sam whispered a few nonsensical comforts, tucking Dean's shirt high around his ribs to free one hand and massage his brother's neck to relax him. The hissing black colouring bubbled like butter being burned off a pan as it started to fade.

"Almost done," he soothed, and Dean nodded stiffly and swallowed. Sam gave his chest one last rinse as the hissing sound gave way, the skin returning to it's normal, aggravated red. The reopened wounds started bleeding, and cautiously Sam wrung the cloth over them, letting out the whooshing breath he didn't realize he had been holding in when Dean didn't react. But Dean did let out a small moan as a wracking shudder tore through him, gulping against the rising lump in his throat. Carefully, Dean swallowed again, opening his eyes groggily to fend off the impending nausea making his head spin.

"I'm just going to...sit here," Dean said with a slow wave of his hand, letting his fingers drop from the nail marks he'd left in Sam's shirt. He shuddered again, feeling a few burning tendrils still lingering in his chest. Sam moved the hand on his shoulder to his jaw, stroking Dean's cheek with his thumb like Dean used to do whenever Sam had nightmares when he was younger. They sat in silence for a few minutes, Sam letting Dean catch his breath before bandaging his chest again. As soon as Dean tried to start sitting up, Sam swooped in to slip an arm under his shoulders and hauled him up.

"You gonna be okay in the car?" Sam asked as Dean let him gently put him into the car without complaint. Dean made an acknowledging grunt, settling down into the seat. Feeling like a mother hen, Sam put his seat belt on for him, and Dean was dead asleep by the time Sam started the car. Unlike his brother, Sam wasn't entirely sure where they were headed, and had to crosscheck the town name Dean had scrawled for him with a map he pulled from under his seat.

As Sam pulled back onto the road, the silence in the car was almost eerie. His head was still spilling over with zooming thoughts, and he couldn't help but glance almost obsessively over at Dean to make sure he was still breathing shallowly. He knew sleep was good for him, but Sam kind of wanted his older brother awake to assure that he was okay... Dean always seemed less hurt and less in danger when he could crack jokes at Sam, no matter how groggy they were. Sam didn't dare put music on, so Dean could rest properly, despite the fact that right now his brother would probably sleep through a volcano erupting. He hadn't been this worried about his brother since before Stanford, and he couldn't figure out why. All impending danger was gone, but Sam was left with a sinking...indescribable, looming feeling. Like something was just waiting for him to slip up and in less than a blink Dean would be gone. He had come close-- too close, and if chance hadn't woken Sam up... Well, he didn't even want to think about it. He _couldn't_ think about it, there was too much to comprehend. What was this thing? Why did it keep going after Dean, and what did it have to do with him? Maybe this could be something accompanying whatever killed their mom and Jessica. Like a baseball bat, the thought nearly winded Sam. What if something, like whatever had tried to take him as a baby, was now coming after his brother. What if, because it didn't get him, now they were trying to take Dean... Feeling emotionally sick, Sam decidedly switched routes. He glanced at Dean, as if his brother would suddenly wake up just to berate him for his choice. But Dean was still dead to the world in the seat beside him, so he turned in a more familiar direction, hoping whatever was trying to kill his brother would hold off another attempt long enough for them to kill it.


	6. II: Sam

_Interlude_ II

**Sam**

All Sam had done was tell his dad he wanted to play sports. A thirteen-year-old boy wanting to play soccer with his friends wasn't crazy, it was normal. Unfortunately, Sam figured his family was a long way from normal.

He paced in his room, furiously picking at his nails and the sleeve of his shirt. He half expected his Dad to come up and try to apologize, or yell at him. He kind of hoped Dean might come in and comfort him like he did with everything else. After an hour of pacing, Sam gave up on the prospect of anyone trying to come into his room. For some reason, that infuriated him further, and he slammed open his door to stalk to the bathroom, slamming that door behind him and pacing there for a few minutes. Taking a prolonged brush of his teeth and washing his face to give room for someone to decide to come check on him, Sam finally marched back to his room, slamming the door again. Huffing as he threw himself onto his bed, he stared up at the ceiling and thought about making himself cry. Instead, he turned on the radio annoyingly loud, and crossed his arms as he laid back down on his bed and resumed staring.

Ten minutes later, Sam fell sound asleep, still in his clothes, on top of his covers. An hour later, his radio clicked off automatically. He woke up on his side, stiff from sleeping on his arm, to a dark, eerily silent house.

He had just broken out of his sleepy haze to figure out where he was and why it was dark when a blood-curdling scream made his stomach jump into his throat, dragging his heart along with it. Sam felt every hair on him stand on end. Rooted to the bed on his back, Sam listened, hyper-aware, for any other noise. Had someone just died? The scream had been petrifying, and it felt like an eternity void of sound as Sam waited. Sickening realization sunk in, seeping slowly into his gut and renewing the rush of fearful adrenaline through his blood.

Dean.

Sam bolted out of bed, making it to the door before his logic kicked in. If something had hurt Dean, it might still be there. He forced his legs to slow down, creeping silently and warily out into the hallway to Dean's door to avoid forewarning anything of his approach. He heard their dad's voice already there, and slowly peeked in.

Something was definitely wrong with Dean- his eyes were open and staring blankly at the ceiling, and for a heart-stopping second Sam thought he was dead. Watching in stunned silence from the doorway as John sat on the bed beside Dean, Sam swore everyone in the room could hear his heart beating. John was tying Dean's hands to his headboard. As he did it, Sam doubled over himself with a sickening wave of nausea. An urge not his own washed over him, wanting to stride over to Dean and almost desperately try to hurt him. He could almost feel Dean's throat under his hands, trying to spasm for breath, feel his skin part under a sharp blade and start oozing crimson. Tears of horror sprung up in Sam's eyes as he clenched his stomach, doubled over in the doorframe.

_"Cristo."_

A shooting pain seared across his chest, leaving a numb burning across his ribcage. Confused, Sam clenched his jaw, leaning heavier on the frame beside him. Dean must be in pain too, he reasoned, and if Dean was silent, he could be. Sam bit his lip, determined to stay as silent as his older brother. He wanted to be sick, feeling slightly flushed from the unrelenting waves of nausea. Gulping and resting his forehead against the cool wood, Sam resolved to try and help Dean. Steadying himself, he pushed himself off the doorframe and stood to take a step forwards. One hand flew back to the door through a wave of dizziness, closing his eyes to let it pass. His stomach heaved alarmingly, in reaction to the sickening gratification of seeing Dean's hands tied to the headboard by his dad. Through quavering vision, Sam saw a large shadow looming over his brother, its head rocking back and forth mockingly. He blinked, still leaning back on the doorframe, trying to clear his vision and hoping the sight would disappear. Sam squinted as he tried to figure it out, trying to make the thing into a more solid, recognizable form- anything to make more sense of it. Dean started thrashing on the bed, and a harsh whispering started to echo in Sam's dizzy ears.

_not for long...hurt- take him... not yours anymore..not for long. Hurt him._

Sam clapped his hands over his ears, but it didn't block the malevolent whisper. It nestled, piercing, into his mind as Dean thrashed, and the piercing pain only increased as Dean screamed. Sam pressed harder on his temples, eyes watering with the frustration of feeling helpless to this _thing_ that he couldn't even see properly, that his father wasn't fighting. Anger started to bubble up in him, far different than the frustration he held towards his father earlier. Now, it was spurred by protective love for his brother, and it was starting to burn so fiercely the whisper was fading away. Sam's own conviction replaced it - _I would **never** hurt Dean, _he thought concretely, back by such certainty the whisper seemed to flinch and withdraw slightly. _I love him_, Sam added, and felt the nausea recede enough for him to stand.

His victory was short lived. The silence to which he stood up was broken by an anguished scream from the bed, as Dean arched and fell back with long, bleeding wounds across his chest. Sam froze, hearing an echo of the whisper in his mind.

_Your fault. Loved him...kill him._ Sam clenched his jaw- No, he loved Dean. This _couldn't_ be his fault, he wouldn't do anything to hurt his brother. But the whisper was growing angry, and Sam knew Dean was going to get hurt more. Another shattering scream, this time bordering on painful defeat, assured him that whatever this thing was, it wanted to kill his brother.

All hesitation quickly cast aside, Sam ignored the thing's presence to push forwards into the room, bolting for his brother's bed and doing the only thing that seemed natural - he bent over Dean, wrapping his arms around his neck to protect him. He clenched his eyes shut and held firmly onto his brother, hearing a piercing shriek that made his head hurt and the deafening crack of a shotgun before the room went silent. Sam's rush of courage faded, and relief that Dean was alive flooded him to the point of tears.

"Sammy," He had heard Dean whisper as the gun went off. He nodded into Dean's neck, tears leaking down his cheeks. Words escaped him, but he knew it, he knew he'd never leave, never do anything short of risking his life to save Dean.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Sam knew their dad was lying to them. Ever since the thing attacked Dean in the middle of the night, he knew John was leaving things out when he talked to his sons. The thought never occurred in Sam's mind that there could be something their father didn't know, just that he wasn't telling them. That little seed of doubt grew mercilessly, and Sam started to harbor a hostility towards John, until finally they blew up at each other, and Sam left. He had been so mad at his father, he hadn't thought that he was leaving Dean too. He only paused to consider the night where he had sworn to protect Dean from the thing - from everything - when he almost lost him a second time.


	7. Familiarity

**a/n:** Another chapter! Sorry it took so long---I got caught up in end of year exams and started my job the day after grad and all my writing got put on hold because of exhaustion. But, I'm not working with 6-year olds anymore, so I have enough energy to write! Hopefully I can spew out some more and get this rolling again---I apologize now for the ending (maybe I just think all my chapter endings are cop-outs, but this one seems kind of abrupt. Oh well!). Enjoy!

Chapter 5

Dean was used to waking up to dizzy blackness behind his eyes by now, but it was rarely to never accompanied by the comforting scent of cinnamon, sage, and what could only be described as "clean" that he smelled now. He inhaled slowly, noting the dull pain in caused in his chest but reveling in the homey smells that made him feel like he was wrapped in a big woolen blanket. It was soft, and had that warm, heavy cloud feeling... but was feeling far too solid to be just a feeling. He cracked his eye open questioningly, and was indeed greeted by a loose-knitted blue wool blanket wrapped around him like a cocoon. The clean cinnamon smell was partially emanating from the lightly cushioned wooden couch he was on, and he vaguely recognized the beaded curtain hanging in the doorway. The smell, the curtain and the couch all clicked into place as a round face appeared through the beads, with a bowl and towel in hand.

"Missouri?" He groaned, trying to sit up. With speed that didn't befit her figure, Missouri strode to the couch and forced him back down, tucking the blanket tighter around him like a restraint.

"Don't you even think about sitting up, boy." She berated, nudging his legs over to perch on the couch with him. Dean groaned again, rolling his eyes as he tried to wriggle free.

"Why am I _here_?" He grumbled, as Missouri dunked the cloth in the bowl and wrung it out in one hand. Bringing it up to wipe his forehead, she chuckled as Dean went cross-eyed trying to look suspiciously up at what she was doing.

"A nice thank you and a good mornin' would have done just fine." She replied, watching Dean blush with embarrassment and obediently lay still. He was a good kid, if a little hot-headed.

"Your brother brought you here," Missouri explained. "Nearly passed out on my doorstep himself, drivin' you all the way here without a wink o'sleep then trying to carry you up the front walk." Dean was starting to look worried, and Missouri could tell he wanted to bolt up and find his baby brother. She chuckled, knowing that in his current condition, he wouldn't make it past the coffee table beside them.

"Sam's sleeping in the other room," she assured him gently, putting a hand on his shoulder to prevent his protective older-brotherness from leaping up and aggravating his injury. "Don't you worry about him."

Dean stayed tense for a second, inspecting her suspiciously to assess the believability of his brother's safety. Missouri lightly cuffed him on the side of the head.

"Have I given you good reason not to trust me? I know how to take care of boys who get themselves into trouble-- I've done it for your daddy since you were up to my knees." Dean gave her an uncomfortable smile and settled back into the couch. Missouri felt his forehead and cheeks, and Dean immediately gave up laying down and tried and squirm out of his blankets to avoid being mothered. While Missouri allowed him a bit of defiant movement, she kept one hand firmly planted on his chest as she pulled the blanket down to check on his bandages. As Dean looked down he realized he wasn't wearing a shirt. He still felt a bit self-conscious despite the neatly wrapped white bandages covering most of his skin, the way you do when your girlfriend's mother walks in on you putting your clothes back on, but Missouri didn't seem to notice. Or rather, Dean decided she didn't care-- nothing went beyond the woman's notice. She was gently prodding his bandages while Dean stared up at the ceiling, pondering what twist of fate landed him in the house of the woman who derived extreme enjoyment out of mocking him... Thinking back, he vaguely remembered opening his eyes to a spinning road and Sam in a panic, but it was still a little hazy. The last thing he remember clearly was getting into the car after leaving the hotel. Dean started suddenly, trying to twist around and look out the front window.

"What happened to my-"

"Your car is fine, although it's you'self you should be worried about." Missouri interrupted without letting him finish, impatiently pushing him back down. Dean tried not to gape like a fish out of water as she continued. It was still weird when she read his thoughts. "You nearly got yourself killed, and then it wouldn't have mattered whether that car of yours was in a ditch or not."

"But...it's not, right?" Dean pursued. Missouri gave him an irritated look, and bound him back up in the blanket.

"Looks like you're gonna be here for a least a week," she decided, and Dean groaned. So this was his punishment for not letting Sam drive from the hotel. He couldn't help but feel Sam had plotted this... it was some conniving little-brother plot to make him miserable for being stubborn. Sam had liked seeing Missouri verbally bash him to a pulp a little too much last time they were here. As he pondered, Dean's stomach grumbled insistently, and he looked down questioningly at it. He was hungry, and had apparently been too nauseous or asleep to notice until now. Missouri chuckled in a knowing way, and Dean was forced to wonder if she had been listening in while he thought as she brought the bowl of water back to the kitchen. Dean took advantage of her absence and quickly freed his arms, carefully pushing himself to a half-sitting position. He innocently greeted Missouri with a guiltless half-smirk when she came back in with a bowl of oatmeal.

"Oooh, don't you start with me." She warned, putting the oatmeal on the coffee table beside the couch. Dean gave her a charming grin-- although it didn't have the same effect when he was pale and swathed in bandages, and reached for the oatmeal. Pulling up a chair, Missouri sat near the couch and leaned back.

"So, you gonna tell me what happened, or do I have to guess?" She asked, and Dean could tell that "guessing" would probably involve a psychic reading or two- which he didn't find particularly pleasant. Defensively, Dean shifted out of her arm's reach on the couch and tried to gulp down a massive mouthful of oatmeal.

"I don't really remember," he said with his mouth half full, but swallowed the rest before Missouri could berate him for it.

"I woke up in the middle of the night and there was this...thing over me. Looked like some half-assed, burnt up Alien thing." It didn't take a psychic to see right through Dean's defensive humour into his fearful recognition of whatever had attacked him.

"Bitch got me pretty bad," Dean continued, picking at the corner of the blanket. "I blacked out before I figured out what to do. Sam woke me up, and it was gone." Missouri felt a pit of sympathy set in her stomach at Dean's unmasked shame at not being able to defend himself. Whether Dean was grateful or not, he and Sam probably would have both been killed ten times over if it weren't for the watchful eyes of their brother. Personally, she was just waiting for both of them to realize it and get over it.

Dean had stopped talking for a second, and Missouri looked up from her thoughts at him questioningly. His grip had tightened on the edge of the blanket as he recalled the attack with a clenched jaw. The hidden look of panic in Dean's eyes had Missouri worried whether Dean was aware of it or not. Her mothering instincts took over and she cautiously leaned forwards, shifting onto the couch beside him.

"We all have to face some unpleasant things-" She started, and Dean nearly lost his grip on his bowl in a frustrated outburst.

"That's just it--I didn't _face_ it, I might as well have hiked up my skirt and run away from it--All I could do was lay there," Dean sounded irreproachably disgusted with himself, and Missouri heard his unspoken words resound in the silence; _All I could do was wait to die._ She recognized something in him then--Something uncannily like his father. Dean was willing to die for his cause. For a young man, he had an astounding conviction to what he considered his lot in life--one Missouri had to admit had been forced on him by his father. But something about Dean's conviction wasn't quite as blind as John's. While John would throw himself into anything with no regard for his safety if it meant working towards vengeance, Dean recognized that he had something to stay alive for- something to protect, which was why he was afraid to die helplessly at the hands of whatever had attacked him. He wouldn't die needlessly if it meant endangering his family, although Missouri had no doubts he would endure whatever hell could throw at him for them.

"Dean?" Even as Missouri looked up when Sam suddenly spoke from the doorway, she watched a mask of composure slip seamlessly over Dean's features, and his lazy, nonchalant big brother smile covered the lingering fear.

"Hey Sammy-- You look like hell." Dean said matter-of-factly, forcing a laugh from his brother.

"Yeah, thanks," Sam replied, almost hesitantly moving into the room. Missouri looked between the two of them and smiled mysteriously as she wondered what the Winchesters would be like without Dean

"How are _you_ feeling," Sam prodded, hovering near the couch.

"I'm fine," Dean answered automatically, and Sam rolled his eyes and looked at Missouri for confirmation.

"He won't be up for almost a week," she said, emphasizing the _won't _with a berating look at Dean.

"A week?" Sam looked a little downtrodden. Missouri felt emotion spike in Dean, and looked down at him to see him wearing an almost accusatory glare.

"What, do you still want to go find that trap?" Dean snapped. Sam almost balked under his brother's harsh tone, but he straightened up defiantly.

"What if it is dad," he entreated, and Dean looked unwaveringly doubtful. Sam looked to Missouri.

"We got a text message with coordinates, and we think--" Dean snorted, and Sam backtracked, "I think it's from our dad, and he was asking for help." The psychic looked between the two brothers, easily sensing Dean's defensive irritation and Sam's distressed worry. "Have you heard from him--talked to him, at all in the last little while?" Sam asked hopefully, and Missouri had to regretfully shake her head.

"Ain't heard a word in a few weeks now," she replied, and a flash of doubt flickered across Dean's eyes.

"What do you think we should do?" Sam implored, knowing Dean would he harder pressed to argue with Missouri than with him. Missouri looked between the two of them again, and after a momentary pause stood and took Dean's half-finished oatmeal.

"I think we need to get you boys a proper meal and more rest. I don't want to hear any talk of plans until you can both walk of your own free will," she said irrefutably. Dean's mouth opened to protest, but Missouri swung back in the doorway and looked at Sam to interrupt him.

"Sam, would you mind running to the store for some eggs?" A little dumbstruck by her sudden decision, Sam nodded, standing from his chair and quickly walking to the door, glad of the excuse to ignore Dean's frustrated "we need to talk" glare.

As the front door clicked shut behind Sam, Missouri heard Dean let out a small growl, and mutter something about her being a very irritating--

"Watch your tongue, Dean Winchester," she barked from the kitchen, and Dean barely covered his surprised splutter.

Dean was used to waking up to dizzy blackness behind his eyes by now, but it was rarely to never accompanied by the comforting scent of cinnamon, sage, and what could only be described as "clean" that he smelled now. He inhaled slowly, noting the dull pain in caused in his chest but reveling in the homey smells that made him feel like he was wrapped in a big woolen blanket. It was soft, and had that warm, heavy cloud feeling... but was feeling far too solid to be just a feeling. He cracked his eye open questioningly, and was indeed greeted by a loose-knitted blue wool blanket wrapped around him like a cocoon. The clean cinnamon smell was partially emanating from the lightly cushioned wooden couch he was on, and he vaguely recognized the beaded curtain hanging in the doorway. The smell, the curtain and the couch all clicked into place as a round face appeared through the beads, with a bowl and towel in hand.

"Missouri?" He groaned, trying to sit up. With speed that didn't befit her figure, Missouri strode to the couch and forced him back down, tucking the blanket tighter around him like a restraint.

"Don't you even think about sitting up, boy." She berated, nudging his legs over to perch on the couch with him. Dean groaned again, rolling his eyes as he tried to wriggle free.

"Why am I _here_?" He grumbled, as Missouri dunked the cloth in the bowl and wrung it out in one hand. Bringing it up to wipe his forehead, she chuckled as Dean went cross-eyed trying to look suspiciously up at what she was doing.

"A nice thank you and a good mornin' would have done just fine." She replied, watching Dean blush with embarrassment and obediently lay still. He was a good kid, if a little hot-headed.

"Your brother brought you here," Missouri explained. "Nearly passed out on my doorstep himself, drivin' you all the way here without a wink o'sleep then trying to carry you up the front walk." Dean was starting to look worried, and Missouri could tell he wanted to bolt up and find his baby brother. She chuckled, knowing that in his current condition, he wouldn't make it past the coffee table beside them.

"Sam's sleeping in the other room," she assured him gently, putting a hand on his shoulder to prevent his protective older-brotherness from leaping up and aggravating his injury. "Don't you worry about him."

Dean stayed tense for a second, inspecting her suspiciously to assess the believability of his brother's safety. Missouri lightly cuffed him on the side of the head.

"Have I given you good reason not to trust me? I know how to take care of boys who get themselves into trouble-- I've done it for your daddy since you were up to my knees." Dean gave her an uncomfortable smile and settled back into the couch. Missouri felt his forehead and cheeks, and Dean immediately gave up laying down and tried and squirm out of his blankets to avoid being mothered. While Missouri allowed him a bit of defiant movement, she kept one hand firmly planted on his chest as she pulled the blanket down to check on his bandages. As Dean looked down he realized he wasn't wearing a shirt. He still felt a bit self-conscious despite the neatly wrapped white bandages covering most of his skin, the way you do when your girlfriend's mother walks in on you putting your clothes back on, but Missouri didn't seem to notice. Or rather, Dean decided she didn't care-- nothing went beyond the woman's notice. She was gently prodding his bandages while Dean stared up at the ceiling, pondering what twist of fate landed him in the house of the woman who derived extreme enjoyment out of mocking him... Thinking back, he vaguely remembered opening his eyes to a spinning road and Sam in a panic, but it was still a little hazy. The last thing he remember clearly was getting into the car after leaving the hotel. Dean started suddenly, trying to twist around and look out the front window.

"What happened to my-"

"Your car is fine, although it's you'self you should be worried about." Missouri interrupted without letting him finish, impatiently pushing him back down. Dean tried not to gape like a fish out of water as she continued. It was still weird when she read his thoughts. "You nearly got yourself killed, and then it wouldn't have mattered whether that car of yours was in a ditch or not."

"But...it's not, right?" Dean pursued. Missouri gave him an irritated look, and bound him back up in the blanket.

"Looks like you're gonna be here for a least a week," she decided, and Dean groaned. So this was his punishment for not letting Sam drive from the hotel. He couldn't help but feel Sam had plotted this... it was some conniving little-brother plot to make him miserable for being stubborn. Sam had liked seeing Missouri verbally bash him to a pulp a little too much last time they were here. As he pondered, Dean's stomach grumbled insistently, and he looked down questioningly at it. He was hungry, and had apparently been too nauseous or asleep to notice until now. Missouri chuckled in a knowing way, and Dean was forced to wonder if she had been listening in while he thought as she brought the bowl of water back to the kitchen. Dean took advantage of her absence and quickly freed his arms, carefully pushing himself to a half-sitting position. He innocently greeted Missouri with a guiltless half-smirk when she came back in with a bowl of oatmeal.

"Oooh, don't you start with me." She warned, putting the oatmeal on the coffee table beside the couch. Dean gave her a charming grin-- although it didn't have the same effect when he was pale and swathed in bandages, and reached for the oatmeal. Pulling up a chair, Missouri sat near the couch and leaned back.

"So, you gonna tell me what happened, or do I have to guess?" She asked, and Dean could tell that "guessing" would probably involve a psychic reading or two- which he didn't find particularly pleasant. Defensively, Dean shifted out of her arm's reach on the couch and tried to gulp down a massive mouthful of oatmeal.

"I don't really remember," he said with his mouth half full, but swallowed the rest before Missouri could berate him for it.

"I woke up in the middle of the night and there was this...thing over me. Looked like some half-assed, burnt up Alien thing." It didn't take a psychic to see right through Dean's defensive humour into his fearful recognition of whatever had attacked him.

"Bitch got me pretty bad," Dean continued, picking at the corner of the blanket. "I blacked out before I figured out what to do. Sam woke me up, and it was gone." Missouri felt a pit of sympathy set in her stomach at Dean's unmasked shame at not being able to defend himself. Whether Dean was grateful or not, he and Sam probably would have both been killed ten times over if it weren't for the watchful eyes of their brother. Personally, she was just waiting for both of them to realize it and get over it.

Dean had stopped talking for a second, and Missouri looked up from her thoughts at him questioningly. His grip had tightened on the edge of the blanket as he recalled the attack with a clenched jaw. The hidden look of panic in Dean's eyes had Missouri worried whether Dean was aware of it or not. Her mothering instincts took over and she cautiously leaned forwards, shifting onto the couch beside him.

"We all have to face some unpleasant things-" She started, and Dean nearly lost his grip on his bowl in a frustrated outburst.

"That's just it--I didn't _face_ it, I might as well have hiked up my skirt and run away from it--All I could do was lay there," Dean sounded irreproachably disgusted with himself, and Missouri heard his unspoken words resound in the silence; _All I could do was wait to die._ She recognized something in him then--Something uncannily like his father. Dean was willing to die for his cause. For a young man, he had an astounding conviction to what he considered his lot in life--one Missouri had to admit had been forced on him by his father. But something about Dean's conviction wasn't quite as blind as John's. While John would throw himself into anything with no regard for his safety if it meant working towards vengeance, Dean recognized that he had something to stay alive for- something to protect, which was why he was afraid to die helplessly at the hands of whatever had attacked him. He wouldn't die needlessly if it meant endangering his family, although Missouri had no doubts he would endure whatever hell could throw at him for them.

"Dean?" Even as Missouri looked up when Sam suddenly spoke from the doorway, she watched a mask of composure slip seamlessly over Dean's features, and his lazy, nonchalant big brother smile covered the lingering fear.

"Hey Sammy-- You look like hell." Dean said matter-of-factly, forcing a laugh from his brother.

"Yeah, thanks," Sam replied, almost hesitantly moving into the room. Missouri looked between the two of them and smiled mysteriously as she wondered what the Winchesters would be like without Dean

"How are _you_ feeling," Sam prodded, hovering near the couch.

"I'm fine," Dean answered automatically, and Sam rolled his eyes and looked at Missouri for confirmation.

"He won't be up for almost a week," she said, emphasizing the _won't _with a berating look at Dean.

"A week?" Sam looked a little downtrodden. Missouri felt emotion spike in Dean, and looked down at him to see him wearing an almost accusatory glare.

"What, do you still want to go find that trap?" Dean snapped. Sam almost balked under his brother's harsh tone, but he straightened up defiantly.

"What if it is dad," he entreated, and Dean looked unwaveringly doubtful. Sam looked to Missouri.

"We got a text message with coordinates, and we think--" Dean snorted, and Sam backtracked, "I think it's from our dad, and he was asking for help." The psychic looked between the two brothers, easily sensing Dean's defensive irritation and Sam's distressed worry. "Have you heard from him--talked to him, at all in the last little while?" Sam asked hopefully, and Missouri had to regretfully shake her head.

"Ain't heard a word in a few weeks now," she replied, and a flash of doubt flickered across Dean's eyes.

"What do you think we should do?" Sam implored, knowing Dean would he harder pressed to argue with Missouri than with him. Missouri looked between the two of them again, and after a momentary pause stood and took Dean's half-finished oatmeal.

"I think we need to get you boys a proper meal and more rest. I don't want to hear any talk of plans until you can both walk of your own free will," she said irrefutably. Dean's mouth opened to protest, but Missouri swung back in the doorway and looked at Sam to interrupt him.

"Sam, would you mind running to the store for some eggs?" A little dumbstruck by her sudden decision, Sam nodded, standing from his chair and quickly walking to the door, glad of the excuse to ignore Dean's frustrated "we need to talk" glare.

As the front door clicked shut behind Sam, Missouri heard Dean let out a small growl, and mutter something about her being a very irritating--

"Watch your tongue, Dean Winchester," she barked from the kitchen, and Dean barely covered his surprised splutter.


	8. Old Friends

**a/n:** Aaaah! I know, I'm a terrible, horrible person! hangs head in shame It was actually a review from alwayssateen that spurred me into finishing this chapter---and boy, did it happen quickly! I woke up this morning, checked my e-mail and saw her review, opened up all my massive documents and not only finished the new chapter, but super-re-edited all the existing chapters. I've been at this for almost 7 hours now. Phew. So, if you have time, go back and read the other chapters and let me know what you think of the few small changes (it's been so long since I updated, you'll probably be like "what changes? I don't remember what it was like before!" My bad.) PLEASE review, let me know you're all still here!

Much love and apologies! Here you go...

Chapter 6

Sam had walked to the corner store once before, last time they had visited Lawrence, when Dean had claimed a desperate need for junk food. Since Sam had rejoined him, Dean had started using sugar as a means of drowning his stress to avoid being berated for going to a bar for anything but poker and pool. They had splurged on bags of bulk candy and caffeinated pop and things Sam knew were costing money that was coming from their food and gas budget, but he hadn't said anything. Now, as Sam entered to the friendly jingle of the bell hanging above the door, Sam saw the same white-haired lady sitting behind the counter as his last visit, her husband unpacking a case of canned soup onto a shelf. It was amazing how some things never change.

"Good afternoon, son," the woman addressed from behind the counter. Sam jumped. Was it afternoon already? He glanced out the window--time had been a flying blur since he got to Missouri's. Trying not to flounder, Sam looked back at the woman and smiled. Whether or not she noticed him falter, she didn't seem to mind.

"Do you need help finding anything?" Sam shook his head.

"No, thanks. Just doing a milk run," he replied. She nodded with another pleasant smile.

"Well, you just holler," she offered, and Sam looked back at the shelf in front of him, trying to remember what he was here for. He had been scatter-brained since the attack in their hotel room, like he was constantly thinking about something else. He just didn't know what.

Scanning the shelves, Sam almost grabbed a bag of all-dressed chips for Dean habitually. Eggs. It came back to him suddenly, and Sam moved over to the refrigerators against the far wall to snatch a container of large brown eggs. Flicking the lid open, he inspected them quickly, still feeling unnaturally distracted. His focus suddenly slid sideways, and he lost sight of the eggs in his hand as everything went black and then flashed into colour that didn't match the store around him. He could see a dark hallway, with the large wooden door of an old house at the end as the light bulb overhead exploded spontaneously. Sam groaned, one hand flying to the side of his head as the store shifted in and out of focus momentarily before the vision returned full force, stabbing pains ringing through his head. Now Dean was in the hallway, gun in hand, and suddenly the gangly black thing Sam had seen in the hotel was on the ceiling, crawling jerkily towards his brother. He tried to shout a warning, but the image twisted and disappeared as Sam heard a distant crack and suddenly he saw Dean's car, slid off the side of the road, one of the windows splattered with blood and a wavering woman in white standing beside it---one minute Sam recognized her, she looked like Jess, then she was faceless and blurring into what looked like the pictures he'd seen of his mom---everything went black again and a high-pitched shrieking filled his ears. Sam gasped, clutching harder at his head with both hands as he felt someone behind him. The piercing sound started to dissipate, the tiled floor of the corner store slipping back into view. It was closer than he remembered. Sam blinked slowly, realizing he was kneeling in the aisle, the refrigerator door still open beside him. The eggs he had been holding were scattered in front of him, mostly broken in the open container, and there was a surprisingly sturdy grip on his shoulders.

"Son, you alright?" A gruff voice asked, and Sam shifted to see the gray haired man who had been stocking shelves holding him firmly by the shoulders.

"What happened?" The lady from behind the counter had joined them, brushing Sam's hair out of his face and trying to catch his eye to assess him.

"It's nothing---just a headache, I get them sometimes…" Sam muttered, and the woman tisked disbelievingly.

"You scared the daylights out of us—one minute you were standing, the next," she spluttered.

"Mel, leave him be," her husband interjected, helping Sam to his feet. "I'm sure the boy knows what's wrong." Sam nodded, trying to steady himself, avoiding the broken eggs on the floor.

"I'm sorry---I can pay for those," he stammered, but Melanie shook her head kindly.

"Don't you worry about those. Here, I'll get you another, and you come on up to the front for a glass of water." She grabbed another dozen eggs from the fridge, closing the door and heading for the front of the store to put the eggs on the counter before scooting into the back. Sam straightened, still a little shaky, and tried to step forwards. The man behind him redirected him over the slowly spreading egg yolks, still supporting his shoulders as he led Sam to the front.

Sam gratefully accepted the support, leaning on the counter as the man moved around the ring in the eggs.

"Been a while since I've seen you boys back here," he said coolly, and Sam looked up, alarmed.

"You---you know us?" He asked, dumbfounded.

"Know of you," the man replied. "Knew your parents, more like. Few of us here kept track of you lot after your mum's death." He studied Sam for a second. "My guess is you're the younger one, Sammy."

"Sam," Sam corrected automatically. "And yeah...you knew my parents?" He felt like a child, unable to keep up with everything being said, so he focused on the important parts.

"Knew'em ever since they moved here. Your mum, Mary—wonderful woman. Had John wrapped around her finger…" He laughed. "It was my Mel that suggested she use the jar technique to make him shape up-" He jerked his thumb at a glass jar on the wooden shelves behind him, filled with small change. "A quarter for every swear word. A dollar if there's more than one in the sentence." Sam couldn't help but chuckle, wondering if he should try the technique on Dean. The man smiled kindly, resting his elbow on the counter to lean in to Sam, eyes growing serious.

"You boys have more people looking out for you than I imagine you know," he said, lowering his voice. Sam backed up slightly, wary. He tried to assure himself it was nothing more than a friendly reminder, but his ingrained suspicion about everything put him on edge.

"Ever since your dad dragged you boys out of town, going on about demons and the like…" He shook his head almost sadly. "Most people thought he was nuts, but some of us---Well, let's just say we were a little more open-minded than others. We've been keeping an ear out for word of your family, praying you're safe."

Sam looked at the man, sure his eyes were bugging out. He was completely floored. People had been looking out for them? Their dad had certainly never mentioned it, neither had Dean---if he even knew. They were both too little to remember much about Lawrence before they left, and Sam wouldn't be surprised if Dean was as unaware of their following as him. He opened and closed his mouth once, unsure of what to say. Thank you sprang to mind, but so did something more pressing.

"Have you heard anything from our dad—" the question barely left his lips when the man held up a hand to shut him up. Mel reappeared in the doorway, still smiling kindly with not water, but a Styrofoam cup of tea and a small bag of cookies in hand. Her husband smiled and moved to let her squish behind the counter with him.

"I wasn't sure what you liked in your tea, so I just gave it an average guess," she said with a small wink, putting the cup beside the eggs on the counter.

"Thank you," Sam started again, but she waved a hand.

"Don't you think twice about it," she insisted, handing him the bag of cookies. "Made these myself just yesterday—I hope raisin's okay by you. I know most boys nowadays prefer something sweet, but Harry can't stand too much chocolate," she explained, putting a hand on her husband's arm. Sam shook his head.

"No, no—raisin's fine. Thank you," he got out again before she could object.

"I just hope you feel a little better, son." She said warmly, and turned to her husband.

"Harry, grab a bag for those eggs, will you---no, no, don't ring them in—they're on the house, so to speak." She said, bustling to grab the plastic bag before her husband could move for it. Harry caught Sam's eye with and gave a little wear roll of his eyes, lightened by the warm smile still on his lips.

"Of course, dear," he answered sweetly, and Sam caught on that Melanie probably didn't know anything about the demons Harry had been telling him about minutes earlier. He looked questioningly back at Harry, who gave him a small nod, the turned to Mel.

"Honey, you remember John and Mary Winchester, who lived around the block?" He asked as she slipped the container of eggs into a plastic bag and pushed it towards Sam.

"Oh, of course!" She replied, eyes lighting up as if it had been only a week ago that they left. "And their two little boys—Dean used to love the licorice whips, always asking his dad for one…Poor John could never refuse," she reminisced. Sam felt a few tears threaten to spring up at the casual recollection of a happy past he would never remember. Recognition dawned in Mel's eyes, and she laid a gentle hand on his arm.

"You must be Sammy…All grown up now." She said softly, quickly dropping the topic of his family. "Well, Sam, you enjoy your tea and cookies, and come visit again." Gently, she put a hand on his face and leaned in the plant a wet kiss on his cheek. Sam forced a smile.

"I will, thank you," he murmured, feeling odd. It was still strange for him to hear stories about his mom, and especially about his dad before John became obsessed with killing evil. He wasn't sure if it gave him a weird sense of happiness, or just plain desolation at how lost the happier times Harry and Mel seemed to remember so easily. Walking numbly back to the door, Sam flinched slightly at the loud bell that jingled as he left.


End file.
